Expectations

My father slams the trunk of my car, and everybody turns and looks at me. This is the day. This is me going away from them. My mother is already crying, wearing her Harvard t-shirt in an effort of celebration.

“I am so proud of you,” she says, and comes and gives me a hug. Like I had worked my whole life to get into Harvard because it was my dream. Like I had some kind of disability that set me back but I kept going. Like I wasn’t forced into this; like it wasn’t my only option.

One day, when nobody was around, I slid a brochure for a prestigious creative writing school in with my graded tests that my father demanded to see every week. Not even ten minutes after I gave them, he came stomping up the steps and pounding on my door, demanding to know what the hell those pamphlets were. I was so frightened that instead of saying that it was my real dream, I said that my English teacher thought I had a nice essay and gave them to me, and I wanted to pull a prank on him. He forced a smile. He didn’t find it funny.

“Can we, like, go back inside, with the air conditioner?” my fifteen-year-old sister Brittany asks. It’s her birthday, and she is less than pleased to be up at nine am, during August, having to stand outside in the hot sweltering air.

“Hold on, Brittany,” my mother, who puts on an outward act of being genuinely concerned for me (but would always slip me snide comments about my weight), admonishes my sister. “Your sister is going away to college. Don’t you realize how momentous this is?”

No, she doesn’t. Brittany and I don’t care about each other. She was always jealous that I got the extra attention, while I was always jealous she didn’t have to work as hard as I did. She will probably be stuck at some community college, or maybe at beauty school.

“Whatever. Let’s just hurry this up, please?”

Fine by me. I smile, attempting to speed this along as well. Get it over with. Although I know I will be crushed at Harvard just as much as I was crushed keeping my 4.0 average along with three sports, Honors and AP courses, two clubs, SAT preps, and student council all throughout high school, I figure being crushed away from my family will be a lot better than having to lean on my father like a crutch: one of the ones that is hard and sharp against your armpit, and continuously slips.

“I really do need to go,” I say, like it’s such a bad thing, trying my best to keep up niceties and politeness. Eighteen years I lived in a house with these three people, but I still felt like they were strangers, and I had to be on my best manners around them. If I ever met the queen of England, I would probably blow her away with my politeness.

“You’ve got a five hour drive ahead of you. Think you can make it?” My father asks. He always seems to be under the impression that I can’t accomplish things. Think you can ace that AP European history test tomorrow? Think you can get a half-court basketball shot? What about the student council elections? Think you can win president? Some of the times his doubt was misplaced. I always got good grades in AP Euro history, and I did get a half-course basketball shot once. I was student council vice-president, though.

But he has been right enough times to really pause a minute and wonder if maybe I won’t be able to actually arrive at Harvard by the end of the day. I have a GPS, and Google directions, not to mention I was there at least five times, but I’ve never gone on my own. Could I handle it?

“I got it,” I say. I try to edge my way over to the driver’s side of my car. “I really do have to go…”

“Give me a hug, baby!” My mom exclaims. I go over and she holds me tight. I look up at my father, and he pats me on the head, shake my hand.

“Good work,” he says, the only compliment I can remember getting from him in who knows how long. Good work. Good work doing everything to accomplish his dream. The one he failed to accomplish when he was in high school, having to settle for Brown instead. He couldn’t get into Harvard. It was important that his first born, with his guidance, did.

“Thanks,” I say. Ignoring my sister, I get into my car and crank up the engine. I take a last minute to look at my house, where I spent eighteen years drilling, learning, practicing, planning, leading, studying, writing, crying, trying. I back out of the driveway.

~

I never applied to that writing college. I figured I wouldn’t have the guts to follow my dreams if I did. Even if I did and I got accepted, my father wouldn’t pay for it. He’d probably kick me out of the house. I let go of my dreams, and now I’m starting to regret it.

At first I try cranking up some music on the radio, but eventually they kept playing the same songs over and over again so I get bored. I try calling my best friend Cara, but she doesn’t pick up. I try convincing myself that somehow this would pay off in the long run, but I know I would end up putting in ten times as much work as in high school, to get a job with just as much energy required and a little bit more money.

Harvard cost a lot of money, and my first semester tuition is not refundable. My father was going to continue paying for my school, sending me money every month, paying for my phone, and my dorm, and so much more. It was the only thing playing with my heart strings that actually made me hesitate when I pick up the phone and dial my father’s number.

I wait two rings, and am just about to hang up when he picks up. I chicken out. I am going to say I miss him or tell the dog I love him or something stupid when he goes, “Get lost already?”

No. No, I didn’t get lost already.

“I’m not going, Dad,” I say, reaching out for my GPS. “I quit. I’m done working so hard to just be miserable. I’m not going.”

“What the hell do you mean you’re not going? This better be a fucking joke, Ashley. You are going to march your ass down to that school, the school I paid for, and you are going to take all of your classes. Do you hear me?”

“No,” I tell him. “I’m not doing it. I’m done.”

I figure I’ll find a place by the beach. One bedroom apartment, work in a coffee shop, find an agent, get published, literary magazines, poetry, the works, the dreams.

“Ashley Marie Spencer! You are going to that school. Do you know how hard we worked to get you in there? Do you know how much I already paid? You’re going!”

He’s shouting now, louder than I’d ever heard him yell. I stay calm, though, and I say, “Dad, I’m not going. Get Brittany to go to Harvard. I don’t want it.”

“Get Brittany? Are you insane, Ashley? This better be a fucking joke. You’re going to Harvard, right this instance. And if you’re not on your way to that damn school, consider yourself cut off. Immediately. You won’t get any more money from me.”

“Fine by me, Dad,” I say. “I better get going, though. Let you calm down. I’m sorry about the money you already paid. I‘ll pay it back.”

I snap my phone shut and threw it on the seat next to me. After a few days, he will probably shut it off. Once he realizes he’s not getting through to me.

See, I always had this dream of living the life I always wanted to live. And it doesn’t seem so impossible any longer. Maybe it’s because I’m not where he can reach out and grab me and shake me until I believe everything he believes. Or maybe it’s something else. All I know is that, from the minute I looked at the house and their faces as I backed out of the driveway, I knew I couldn’t really go to Harvard. That’s the easy way out, isn’t it? Please Dad, go for a good, steady job, and live my life without having to worry about anything but having the energy to get through the die and not want to kill myself anymore.

You. Cant. Control. Me.